Logan waited at the hospital, because there wasn't really anywhere else for him to go. He wasn't going to go back to FHQ and wait for his suspension to become official. At least if he was out here, with his phone switched off, he could pretend it wasn't going to happen.

Four hours later a serious-looking nurse appeared and escorted Logan through the maze of corridors to intensive care. The doctor who'd dealt with Desperate Doug was standing at Roadkill's bed, reading a chart.

'How is he?'

The doctor looked up from his clipboard. 'You back again?'

Logan looked at the battered, bandaged figure. 'Is it as bad as it looks?'

'Well…' There was a sigh. 'He's suffered some brain damage. We won't know how much for a while yet. He's stable for now.'

They stood watching Roadkill's shallow breaths.

'Is there any chance?'

The doctor shrugged. 'I think we caught the internal bleeding in time. I can tell you one thing for sure though: he's not going to have any more children. Both testicles ruptured. But he'll live.'

Logan winced. 'What about the man I came in with earlier? Mr MacDuff?'

'Not good.' He shook his head. 'Not good at all.'

'Is he going to be OK?'

'I'm afraid I can't discuss that. Patient confidentiality. You'd have to ask Mr MacDuff.'

'OK I'll do that.'

The doctor shook his head again. 'Not tonight. He's an old man; he's been through a lot today. It's nearly midnight. Let him sleep.' He raised sad eyes to Logan's face. 'Trust me: he's not going anywhere.' Outside, the snow had stopped and the sky was clearing: a bowl of inky-black, the stars blurred by the city's lights. Logan walked out of A amp;-E and into the icy night.

An ambulance carefully pulled up to the entrance, its lights flashing away.

Turning his back on the scene, Logan climbed into his pool car, his breath instantly fogging up the windscreen, dug out his mobile phone and switched it back on. Might as well face the music, now that it was too late for anyone to be calling him.

He had five messages. Four of them were from Colin Miller, desperate to know what had happened to Roadkill. But one was from WPC Jackie Watson asking if he didn't have anything better to do that is, if he would, but it was OK if he didn't, like to maybe go see a film, or maybe not a film, maybe just have a drink, because it had been a rough day…And if he did want to, you know, do something, then he could maybe give her a call back? The message was left at eight. Right about when Logan was sitting down to wait for Roadkill to come out of surgery.

He stabbed her number into the phone. It was late: after midnight, but maybe not too late…

It rang and rang and rang. At last a tinny, metallic voice told him that the number he had called was not available, please try again later.

For the second time that day he punctuated a list of obscenities by banging his head on something. The steering wheel made little boinging noises as he bounced his forehead against the plastic.

It had not been a good day.

When the windscreen finally cleared Logan revved the engine, spinning the car out of the hospital car park in a foul mood. With his teeth gritted he slammed on the brakes as the car sailed up to the junction, taking grim pleasure as the car's back end decided it wanted to overtake the front. He floored the accelerator and steered into the skid, whipping the car back in line as it drifted round the corner and on to the main road. There was a truck stopped at the lights up ahead and Logan had the sudden desire to put his foot down and plough right into the back of it.

But he didn't. Instead he swore quietly to himself and slowed the car down to a crawl.

The sound of his mobile screeching in his jacket pocket made him jump. It was Jackie, WPC Watson calling back! Grinning, he scrabbled the phone out and up to his ear. 'Hello?' he said, sounding as upbeat as he could.

'Laz? That you?' It was Colin Miller. 'Laz, I've been trying to get hold of ye for hours, man!'

Logan sat with the phone against his ear, watching the traffic lights change from red to amber. 'I know. I got your messages.'

'They beat the shit out of Roadkill. Did you hear? What happened? Spill the beans!'

Logan said no.

'What? Come on, Laz, I thought you and me was friends here?'

Logan scowled out at the cold, empty night. 'After what you did? You're no bloody friend of mine!'

There was a stunned silence.

'After what I did? What you talking about? I've no put the boot into your pantomime dame for ages! I did your damn puff-piece! What the hell more do you want?'

The light finally went green and the truck pulled away, leaving Logan and the pool car behind.

'You told everyone we'd found Peter Lumley's body.'

'So? You did find it, what-'

'He was going to come back. The killer. He was going to come back and we were going to catch him!'

'What?'

'He'd hidden the body. He was going to come back to it. But because you splurged your story all over the front bloody page he knows. He won't go back. He's still out there and you just screwed up the best chance we had of catching the bastard! The next kid that goes missing is your fault, understand? We could have caught him!'

Another silence. When Miller finally spoke his voice was low, barely audible over the car's blowers. 'Jesus, Laz, I didn't know. If I'd known I'd've never published a word! I'm sorry.'

And the thing was he genuinely sounded sorry. Logan took a deep breath and slid the car into gear. 'You have to tell me who your source is-'

'You know I can't do that, Laz. I can't.'

Sighing, Logan pulled away from the lights, heading back into town.

'Listen, Laz, I'm about done here, you want to meet up for a drink? There's still places open down the docks…I'm buying?'

Logan said he didn't think so and hung up.

Traffic was light all the way across town. He abandoned his car outside his flat and slouched up the stairs. The place was cold, so he cranked up the heating and sat in the dark, watching the lights twinkling outside the windows, feeling sorry for himself. Trying not to think about the knife.

The little red light on his answering machine was flashing at him, but it was just more messages from Miller. Nothing from WPC Watson saying she was waiting up for him with a bottle of champagne and a negligee. And maybe some toast?

Logan's stomach gave a low growl. It was coming up for one o'clock in the morning and he'd not eaten a thing since breakfast except a handful of Maltesers and some painkillers.

There was a packet of biscuits and a bottle of red wine in the kitchen and Logan opened them both. He poured himself a big glass of shiraz and stuffed a chocolate Hob Nob into his mouth then went back to sulking and slouching in the lounge.

'Not to be taken with alcohol,' he said, toasting his reflection in the lounge window.

He was halfway through his second glass when the doorbell went. Swearing, he pulled himself out of his chair and over to the window, peering out to see a familiar flash motor squeezed in across the road.

Colin Miller.

The reporter was standing on the doorstep with a contrite expression and two large carrier bags.

'What do you want?' asked Logan.

'Aye, look, I know you're pissed off, OK? But I didn't do it on purpose. If I'd known I would've kept ma mouth shut. I'm really, really sorry…' With an apologetic smile he hoisted the carrier bags. 'Peace offerin'?'

They settled into the kitchen, Logan's bottle of shiraz joined by Miller's chilled chardonnay and an array of plastic dishes, each one exuding the heady, spicy smell of Thai takeaway. 'I know the owner,' said Miller, spooning green-curried tiger prawns onto a plate. 'Did him some favours when he lived in Glasgow. And he's open hell of a late.'